


it gets late early

by ohtempora



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Future Fic, Playoffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: There are no guarantees in baseball. Last season she thought she tore her UCL. She could have been done forever, trying to save a no-hitter, like it was more important than the rest of her life.By some improbable miracle, the San Diego Padres make it to the 2017 National League Wild Card game.





	1. it gets late early

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elegantstupidity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/gifts).



> elegantstupidity, happy yuletide!!!! i hope you enjoy this fic. 
> 
> HUGE thanks to e. and n. for their help, and responding to all my texts. 
> 
> i ended up writing out batter-by-batter play by play for this fic, as well as a full roster (culled where i could from the show and made up elsewhere where i couldn't). if you're interested in that/want to keep track, it's in chapter two. 
> 
> title comes by a quote from the incomparable yogi berra. also, mild apologies go to the diamondbacks, who did actually win the wild card game.

The San Diego Padres are not supposed to be here. They aren't supposed to be playing in the wild card game, pushing open the cracked door to the postseason. The narrative, and the realities of the NL West, put them somewhere towards the bottom of the division. No one had them playing October baseball.

But they have a 38-year-old catcher trying not to end his career on a loss. They have the herculean efforts of Blip Sanders. They have a guy the Yankees DFAed in mid-July and a waiver pickup from Cleveland and a rookie from Japan. And they have Ginny Baker, on half an elbow and sheer will. They have half a game over the Rockies. They’re facing down Zack Greinke, winner-take-all, and if they get past Greinke it’s Kershaw and Darvish and Wood and Hill. You can’t predict baseball, but what’s surprising is how much it still surprises, season after season, year after year.

 

-

 

Ginny starts the wildcard game on the bench. Shigeo is starting. Mike's behind the dish, for what could be the last game of his career. She's with Sonny and Bean in the bullpen, hands wrapped tightly around a baseball, like she's praying.

All hands on deck.

Arizona is hot and dry. They flew in two days ago. She sat next to Mike on the plane up from San Diego, both of them with headphones on, the sides of their feet touching. The entire team holding its breath. She thought, _god I hope we do it I hope we do it I don’t know if we can do it_. She’s trying to believe.

Shigeo’s good. Throws high heat and a wicked slider. He's won them at least three games they should have lost. Ginny talked him up to the press yesterday during the media session. _Yeah, only one season out from being a rookie myself, I remember the pressure. He's a rookie, sure, but he can handle it. I think he’s going to give us the best shot out there. He knows how to attack hitters_. And the pressure isn’t the same, nothing could ever be the same as last year, but Shigeo can pitch.

The game starts. Top of the order up to bat. Groundout. Greinke’s face taut, focused. Ginny knows that expression. She rolls the ball between her palms. Next batter. Blip is up. Digs in his heels at the plate. Tries to pull some magic from the air. His kids are here, Evelyn’s here watching, all of them together. The twins had a fight over who wore the Sanders jersey and who wore the Baker one. Blip swings, misses. Swings, misses. Swings, makes contact. Groundout. Then Salvamini, cocksure at the plate. Groundout.

Diamondbacks and Padres tied: no score.

Bottom of the first. Shigeo’s shoulders are set. First pitch is a foul. Second is a ball, third is a ball, fourth a strike swinging to even the count and Ginny’s heart is in her throat. Peralta fouls off one more and then singles to centerfield. Man on first, no out.

Second batter, first pitch line drive, men on first and third. Not the start any pitcher would want, but all Shigeo needs is a double play, let the infielders help him out. He’s good at getting ground balls. All he needs is one ground ball.

Paul fucking Goldschmidt hits a three-run home run.

There’s bile rising in her throat, now. Ginny swallows hard against it, squeezes the baseball in her hand. Sonny looks like he’s about to puke too, but they both know the unwritten rules: don’t say anything about the pitcher. If he’d been out there — if she’d been out there — no one knows if anything would be different. You can’t call it.

JD Martinez hit a fly to left, and they finally get a goddamn out.

After him, Jake Lamb singles, and Pollock doubles him over to third, and then Shigeo gets two strikeouts swinging from Descalso and Mathis, what might be too little, too late.

Greinke puts down Melky, Dom, and Hanan in order, neat clean gorgeous outs. Ginny admires him as a pitcher, except the times she plays against him. Especially now.

Barely given a chance to try and shake it off, Shigeo’s walking back out to the mound. He gets Greinke to ground out, and then the lineup turns over. Peralta singles, Marte fucking triples, the Diamondbacks score, and Al decides that he’s seen enough.

In the dugout they’re all telling him it’s okay. Shigeo doesn't say a word. He puts on his warmup jacket and pulls the hood over his eyes. He lasted 1.1 innings and he's out of the game. It happens, it'd be something to shake off, but it's the wildcard and they're down four runs.

Ginny knows this dance. It’s happened to her enough times. You pick your guys up, and you hope they score some runs, pick you up in return. But it's hard to watch from the bullpen. Shigeo’s a starter, and any other game she’d be in her warmup jacket, ushering him back into the gaggle of pitchers, his peers who know what it’s like to wear that loss.

Any other goddamn game.

Hill warms up in the pen, goes in, gets two strikeouts. Greinke walks back onto the mound. Mike’s up at bat. He’s got tension in his shoulders Ginny can see from the outfield, hands choked up on his bat, ready to start chipping away at the score. He swings on the first pitch, pops up to second.

The next plate appearance is a walk, then Al switches out Hill, and there’s a single, they’ve got men on first and third.

Flyout, groundout, inning over, Greinke’s face tight like Mike’s body was. They’re all the same right now. The game feeling like any minute it could break.

 

-

 

Greinke has it through four innings, until he doesn’t.

Berger comes in from the pen, pitches the third without incident — two hits, no runs, good enough to keep them down only four. But time’s ticking. They've got five innings to make it happen and Ginny can see it when Salvamini goes up to bat. He singles to right field. Gonzalez grounds out, but then Dom singles and Hanan singles and Mike’s up.

He grounds out too, but there's enough time that Dom made it to third, and then further. He scores. Padres 1, Diamondbacks 4. And then Voorhies doubles and Hanan scores, and Elin pinch-hits for Berger and Voorhies scores, and it’s a tied fucking ballgame and Chafin’s warming up in the Dbacks' pen, the manager and pitching coach huddling with Greinke on the mound.

Ginny stares up at the scoreboard. Wasn’t one swing of the bat, it took a few, it took some luck and some doing, but it’s a tie game.

Thrown into the game, Chafin gets Ellis to fly out, then it’s the bottom of the fourth and Margolis is up to pitch.

“Earlier than normal,” he says as he walks out, cleats already smudged with dirt from warming up. But it’s tied. The team needs him to hold the tie.

They’re all watching the game, stressed the fuck out, but everyone murmurs affirmation to him. Ginny joins in best she can. She’s not normally with the guys here, doesn’t know the dynamic, when they speak and when they don’t. Starters have one rhythm and the bullpen has another.

Margolis walks a guy, but other than that Arizona gets nothing. Game’s still tied. They make it through the fifth and the sixth too, and then it’s the top of the seventh and Voorhies doubles, moves to third on a wild pitch. Ellis lays a bunt down the first base line and Voorhies scores and they _have the lead_ , up from being down four runs. Ginny’s screaming in the ‘pen, arms thrown up to the sky.

It doesn’t last: Fogelman gives up a single to Jake Lamb, gets Pollock on a foul pop but walks Descalso. Archie Bradley’s up, the pitcher, and he’s gotta get out, he’s a pitcher, who’s telling him to even swing—

It’s a triple to center, two runs score, and they’re down again. Only by one, but they’re down again.

Top of the eighth. They’ve come back once already. Bradley’s pitching. He looks confident out on the mound — run-scoring triple, of course he looks confident out on the goddamn mound.

They’re getting lonely in the bullpen over here, parade of relievers slowly emptying out. Sonny’s still sitting with to her, nudges her with his knee. “Plenty of time,” he says, the first words he's said in a while. “You know there’s plenty of time.”

Salvamini, up first, grounds out.

“Plenty of time,” Sonny repeats. Ginny doesn’t know if he’s talking to her or himself.

Melky’s up next. He sits fastball, but the second pitch is in the same spot, and he hits it oppo over the wall. Home run. Game tied at six. Dom’s up next, and he’s up in the count 3-0, gets the green light to swing.

What happens next might as well be a miracle. Ginny doesn’t know how Dom makes contact, but he does. She doesn’t know how the ball makes it 400 feet, but it does, arcing up and away and falling into the seats. She doesn’t know how they get the lead on back to back home runs, but they do.

Mike’s in the box, and he doubles, but Voorhies lines out to end the inning. Moore’s in for the bottom of the eighth, facing the heart of Arizona’s order. Goldschmidt hits a leadoff single off him. It’s always Paul goddamn Goldschmidt. Ginny’s been there. No one'll blame the pitcher when they're facing Goldschmidt.

Thankfully Moore shakes it off, gets the force out at second. But he follows it up with a single, a single, and a walk to get men on, and all it takes is the second single for one run to score, a bunt single for another, two runs to push the Padres behind again. Means they've got one inning left to make some noise. Three outs left.

A groundout by Brandon Drury ends the inning and the Diamondbacks throw in Hernandez to pitch, to hold their fragile lead. Bessner pinch hits for San Diego, looks like he's gonna puke all over home plate. He fouls a ball off. Fouls a ball off. Pulls it together and throws Hernandez a look, like he’s not down in the count 0-2. Takes a walk, fouls a ball off, and the fifth pitch of the home run is an absolute monster of a home run.

Again, another small miracle, they’re tied.

Ellis singles, and Blip grounds into a double play. Salvamini strikes out to end the inning. Butch is up in the pen: bottom of the ninth, top of the order. High fucking leverage. He reaches over when he’s walking out and Ginny touches their hands together, nods at him. This isn’t her normal spot, but she knows what to do.

Butch gets a flyout, a strikeout, and a strikeout. They're going to extras. Free baseball in the wild card game.

Looking around, Ginny shrugs at Sonny. He nudges her, then looks to either side, casting his gaze down the bench. There aren’t a lot of guys left in the pen.

The Diamondbacks throw Hernandez back out there, and the batting coach picks up the ringing bullpen phone. He chats for a moment, listening to Al. He’s glancing from the phone to Sonny to her, back to her.

Immediately, Ginny knows what’s coming.

"Baker." Coach looks at her. "You wanna pitch?"

She doesn't have a choice, does she? And it doesn't matter. Wild card game, extra innings. She dreamed about this, when she dreamed about baseball. She told her dad she’d be good enough to pitch in the majors one day. Good enough to pitch in the playoffs. Who cares that she isn’t starting?

There aren’t guarantees in baseball. Last season she thought she tore her UCL. She could have been done forever, trying to save a no-hitter, like it was more important than the rest of her life. An offseason of PRP injections and her arm is hanging on, no Tommy John yet, but that’s not—

The whole point is Ginny doesn’t know. But this could be her only chance. It’s almost certainly one of her last chances to pitch to Mike, if not the last ever. It’s so much pressure, pushing in on her, the weight of history and the weight of expectations and the immediate weight, extending their season. It's so much. She wants the ball.

"Yeah, skip." Ginny stands up. "Put me in."

“Get ready,” he says.

Ginny throws her warmup pitches to the bullpen catcher. They smack into his glove, one-two-three, and that perfect pop is the sign she was looking for. “Okay,” she says, _ready_ , and Berrios nods at her, lowers his hand.

“You got it,” he tells her, punching his fist into his glove.

She takes a second and surveys the field, then walks out across the outfield grass.

Her and Mike, bottom of the tenth. Arizona's dry heat. The crowd is wearing red and wants blood. They want the divisional series. They don't want her. They want LA.

Mike walks up to the mound and looks at her, his face shadowed by the stadium lights. "You throw it to me," he says. "Just put it in my glove."

No margin for error. They aren't the home team. "You say that like it's easy."

"Don't tell me you never pictured this when you had my poster up on the wall." Mike grins down at her, clearly reading the indignation on her face. "You can't kick me for that comment 'til we win, Baker. You need me unbruised."

"Yeah, yeah." Ginny inhales, holds it for a count of three, exhales. "Okay."

She's got JD Martinez up. Mike calls for the first pitch. Martinez swings through it, hard. Looking to play hero ball, Ginny thinks. He wants to end it with one swing. She's not gonna let him have it.

Mike calls for the screwball, and she misses outside. He calls for it again and she sets, throws the pitch.  Martinez fouls it off down the third base line, taps his bat a couple times against the plate.

Fourth pitch of the at-bat and she gets him swinging, her curveball low and inside, exactly where Mike wants it.

On first, Salvamini holds a finger up: one out.

Second batter’s a flyout to center, Blip leaping and grabbing the ball out of the air with a gorgeous jump, framed by the screaming crowd. Ginny throws her arms up in triumph when he makes it. Two down.

Third batter slides into first just as Melky makes the throw. Safe. Al calls for a review and the entire stadium holds its breath. Call on the field upheld. Ginny nods. Closes her eyes. It doesn’t matter as long as she makes it not matter.

Fourth batter she gets on a called strike, the ball fluttering past him. Descalso watches it go. Doesn’t swing, and that's the inning. Now they're the ones who're safe.

Diamondbacks 8, Padres 8. What’s the thing they say? A motherfucker of a ballgame? It’s gotta be good for the people watching at home.

 

-

 

After all that: tie game. Ginny’s a pitcher. She knows all the ways to win, how they matter the same once it's over. A walk, a single, a bloop hit or a sac fly to score the runner darting off of second. A couple good hits to the gap. Or a home run.

They have the middle of the order up. Enough to do damage. If her spot comes up, they’ll switch her out, but maybe — they can feel it again, for the first time since they lost the lead. Something in the air.

Their first guy up strikes out. Ginny watches Mike watch from the on-deck circle, his hands curled around the handle of his bat.

Mike can’t hit the way he used to. Dropped in the order, for this game. It’s alright, it’s his knees, it’s the fading march of a baseball career, a couple more hits to pad his stats. Fernando Rodney — another old bastard, Mike called him once; they’d been friends, when Rodney was a Padre — he’s pitching. Mike used to catch him. It’s the top of the eleventh.

Ginny breaths in and lets herself hope.

Mike takes a called strike and a ball and a ball, fouls one off and fouls another one off and takes another ball and they’re all thinking, _get on base, take the walk, only one out that’s plenty of breathing room Mike can’t run fast but a hit could move him over and a sac fly could score him get on base_ and then Rodney throws a fourseam fastball that doesn’t have the velocity it should _._

The arc of the ball is beautiful, an ugly, messy home run that gets thrown back on the field the second it’s caught by a fan. Ginny will see that later, when she's safe at home and watching highlights of the game. Right now she’s too busy screaming.

Diamondbacks 8, Padres 9.

Ginny breathes in, and lets herself believe.

 

-

 

“Can you go out again?”

Ginny knows the calculations Al’s making. Who’s left on the bench. A one run lead isn’t much of anything, but all she has to do is hold it. Last inning all she had to do was hold the tie. All she has to do.

“Yeah. I’m good for it.”

“First real sign of trouble—” Al looks towards Mike, looks towards the bullpen. There aren’t a lot of guys left, they’d have to burn another starter, but there’s enough to get three outs if they have to.

“I know.”

They jog out onto the field. There’s a special tension, bottom of the eleventh, when the home team’s down. They could do nothing, or one swing could tie the team. Circumstances shift — one swing could win it. Ginny’s pitched in relief a few times, but she likes the steady work of starting, doesn’t thrive off the insane pressure. Couldn’t do it every day.

This isn’t every day.

She walks the first batter on five pitches. Mike comes up to the mound. “You threw two strikes in there,” he says. “That was a bad call.”

Covering her mouth with her glove, Ginny nods.

“I’m not calling it yet,” Mike says, and he moseys back to the plate. She strikes the next one out, her screwball a dance, a fuck you. There’s one.

The batting order turns over. There’s Peralta, walking up from the on-deck circle, looking like he knows the damage his team can do, even down to their final two outs.

And knowledge is powerful, here. He singles on the next pitch and suddenly the Diamondbacks have men on first and second, one out.

It’s 60 feet and six inches to home plate. Mike’s been that far away from her for two years now. Baseball is a team game and an individual one. Ginny knows that. She knows how ERA works, how FIP works, her WHIP and K/9 and her peripherals. She knows it’s more than just her and her catcher, framing the pitch he wants her to throw, but right now she can't see anything else.

The screwball gets bad contact. Guys don’t know where it’s going. It breaks opposite from a curveball, it makes batters look silly, the fuck is this pitch. It spins them around.

It’s _her_ pitch and it got her here, bottom of the eleventh in a winner-take-all game. They could win or lose before they get to her spot in the rotation in the NLDS. Ginny wants to throw the screwball, and Mike wants it too.

She watches his fingertips flash, nails coated in yellow paint. He sets his glove. Marte’s glaring at her like he think it means something, like he’ll throw her off. He won’t. Ginny gets ready, and throws.

Marte makes contact. It’s not a hit.

6-4-3 double play, just like it’s drawn up. Marte drops his bat in disgust, shoulders slumping, and Ginny doesn’t see any of it because she’s running, straight towards home plate, and Mike’s running to meet with his arms open and his mask flipped up. They collide with a thump hard enough to hurt and she doesn’t care, wraps her legs around him and leaps into his arms. There’s a long glorious moment where she’s looking down at him and she screams, _we did it we won it for you_ and he’s looking at her mouth—

And then Blip hits them, and Livan, and Shigeo with his arm already wrapped in ice, and Butch and Sonny and Dom and Salvamini and she’s getting Gatorade dumped over her head, she can’t see anything and it doesn’t matter, they’re all jumping up and down, they won, they _won_.

 

-

 

“Hey,” Mike says. “That was a hell of a final pitch.”

Ginny turns to him, tilts her face up so she can smile at him, and he upends a bottle of beer straight over her head.

Sputtering, she wipes her face, goggles flapping uselessly around her neck. “Fuck you,” she says. “Mike, what the fuck. You could have at least poured champagne.”

“Seriously,” Mike says. “A hell of a pitch.”

They’re flying to LA soon. The Dodgers were the best team in the league this season, deservedly so; it won’t be easy. It’s still something. The Padres haven’t made the playoffs in 11 years. It’s why they took a risk on Shigeo, on Livan. On her. And they made the wildcard. They made the NLDS. Who cares if they aren’t supposed to be here?

“I don’t want to only have three more games with you,” Ginny says. It’s not the right place to say it. Shrek’s blasting Cardi B, and there are cameras and booze-soaked reporters around. It’s really bad.

“If that was the last pitch you were ever gonna throw to me,” Mike says. “I meant what I said.” He reaches out, tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. “If that was it, you fucking did it, Ginny. They’re gonna make posters of that. Not me looking all hot in 2003.”

She hugs him then, both of them champagne-soaked, sweat-soaked, smelling like liquor and the game. They’ve danced around this for two years because they had to. There’s no time for it now, even when it feels like they’ve got all the time in the world. “It’s not the end,” she tells him. “It’s not.”

Mike winds a hand in her hair, holds on, until Blip finds them with a bottle of champagne and sprays it, soaking them both again.

 

-

 

They go back to the hotel happy and exhausted and half-drunk. Tomorrow they'll have time to stare down the Dodgers. Tomorrow they’ll go home, and the coaches will begin to game plan, and it'll all begin.

Ginny threw two scoreless innings tonight and saved them. Mike’s home run won them the game. She sits next to him on the short bus ride because how could she not, how could she not be close to him right now. They’ll go out and celebrate in Phoenix together, ride the glee of the win as long as they can.

“Hey, Baker,” Mike says out of the corner of his mouth. “You know what you just did?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ginny says. Her’s phone been buzzing all night — Amelia, Elliot, first of all. Old teammates from San Antonio, watching from home. Her mom. Will. “Two scoreless innings in relief, huh. Maybe I should talk to Al, rethink that silly starting thing.”

“Two scoreless innings in relief that won us the fucking game.” Mike’s big hand covers her knee, squeezes. She can feel the heat of it through the joggers she threw on when she peeled off her champagne-soaked clothes, after the celebration died down, after it hit them that everything was real. “The NLDS. We’re taking on LA.”

“I’m not scared of Clayton Kershaw,” Ginny says. She can taste the champagne lingering bubbly on her tongue.

“Yeah, I know, you showed him your goddamn screwball grip, last time we played.” Mike scowls. “Last thing he needs is another pitch.”

Ginny leans against him. “So? He’s not going to throw it. You worry about his curve, old man.”

“I can hit a curve,” Mike says. “I got at least three more games to play. I’m not done yet.”

They ride more or less in silence the rest of the short trip back to the hotel. Well - relative silence. Salvamini’s playing Despacito at top volume and he and Melky are rapping along.

Ginny ducks into her room as soon as she can, gets rid of her wet clothes and into jeans and a black tank top. She’ll want to hold onto everything later, she knows, but right now she’s doing this quick.

There’s a knock at her door, and only one person it could be.

“You going out?”

Mike’s changed into a flannel and jeans, the cuffs of the shirt pushed up over his thick forearms. He looks exhausted, and exhilarated. He looks good.

“Yeah.” She has to, but she would anyway. She wants to celebrate. Wants to surround herself with the team. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“I gotta finish changing,” Ginny says, doesn’t move. They’ve been here before, standing this close. Outside a bar, counting down to the trade deadline, another non-contending team selling off. That was last year. That’s not—

“I’m about to do a dumb thing,” Mike says. “But to hell with it.”

He curves his hand around the side of her face and she lets him, eyes wide. He tilts his head down to kiss her and she meets him, _finally_ , sighs into it. They taste like champagne. They taste the same.

“I always knew you’d do it,” Mike says. “Your screwball was gorgeous tonight. It won us that game.”

“That was really dumb,” Ginny says. She inhales. Her chest brushes against Mike’s. He’s so warm. “Mike, that was so stupid, oh my god, that was so dumb.”

“Yeah?” He pushes a lock of hair behind her ear. “I don't care. You deserve it.”

Ginny closes her eyes, then opens them and looks at him. “We gotta go meet the rest of the team,” she says. “But first I think you should do it again.”

He's looking back. "Okay," he says, and kisses her again, and it feels like victory just as much as the final pitch did leaving her hand, feels like a win. 


	2. starting lineup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the padres lineup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pulled the names from the shower where i could - added as needed! obv not everyone would be on the wild card roster, but they all got first names nevertheless.

**Starting Lineup**

Alex Ellis - 8  
Blip Saunders - 9  
PJ Salvamini - 3  
Melky Gonzalez - 6  
Dom Cristiello - 5  
Tyler Hanan - 7  
Mike Lawson - 2  
Dusty Voorhies - 4  
Shigeo Iwakuma - 9

 

**Bench**

Livan Duarte  
Mark Bessner  
Victor Han  
Dustin Hinkley  
Omar Robles  
Aaron Elin  
Neil Prytula  
Jose Adrianza

 

**Rotation**

Shigeo Iwakuma  
Sonny Evers  
Pete Nguyen  
Ginny Baker  
Carlos Javanes

 

**Pen**

Butch Hunter  
William Bean  
Clayton Moore  
Benjamin Berger  
Warren Fogelman  
Darius Thomas  
Kyle Gordon  
Zack Hill  
Zach Margolis


	3. play by play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the 2017 wildcard game, batter by batter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i originally handwrote this, but figured the table would be easier than my messy handwriting in a printed out grid.

**Inning** | **Score** | **Out** | **Batter** | **Pitcher** | **Play** | **Notes**  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
1 | 0-0 | 0 | Ellis | Greinke | Groundout |    
1 | 0-0 | 1 | Sanders | Greinke | Groundout |    
1 | 0-0 | 2 | Salvamini | Greinke | Groundout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
1 | 0-0 | 0 | Peralta | Iwakuma | Single CF | first  
1 | 0-0 | 0 | Marte | Iwakuma | Single RF | first, second  
1 | 0-0 | 0 | Goldschmidt | Iwakuma | Home Run | Goldschmidt, Marte, Peralta score  
1 | 3-0 | 0 | Martinez | Iwakuma | Flyball LF | first  
1 | 3-0 | 1 | Lamb | Iwakuma | Single RF | second, third  
1 | 3-0 | 1 | Pollock | Iwakuma | Double RF |    
1 | 3-0 | 1 | Descalso | Iwakuma | Strikeout Looking |    
1 | 3-0 | 2 | Mathis | Iwakuma | Strikeout Swinging |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
2 | 0-3 | 0 | Gonzalez | Greinke | Strikeout Swinging |    
2 | 0-3 | 1 | Cristiello | Greinke | Flyball LF |    
2 | 0-3 | 2 | Hanan | Greinke | Groundout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
2 | 3-0 | 0 | Greinke | Iwakuma | Groundout |    
2 | 3-0 | 1 | Peralta | Iwakuma | Single CF | first  
2 | 3-0 | 1 | Marte | Iwakuma | Triple CF | third; Peralta scores  
2 | 4-0 | 1 | Goldschmidt | Hill | Strikeout Swinging |    
2 | 4-0 | 2 | Martinez | Hill | Strikeout Swinging |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
3 | 0-4 | 0 | Lawson | Greinke | Pop Fly |    
3 | 0-4 | 1 | Voorhies | Greinke | Walk |    
3 | 0-4 | 1 | PH-Hinkley | Greinke | Single RF | first  
3 | 0-4 | 1 | Ellis | Greinke | Flyball | second  
3 | 0-4 | 2 | Sanders | Greinke | Groundout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
3 | 4-0 | 0 | Lamb | Berger | Single RF | first  
3 | 4-0 | 0 | Pollock | Berger | Strikeout Swinging |    
3 | 4-0 | 1 | Descalso | Berger | Single CF | Lamb to third  
3 | 4-0 | 1 | Mathis | Berger | Strikeout Swinging |    
3 | 4-0 | 2 | Greinke | Berger | Groundout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
4 | 0-4 | 0 | Salvamini | Greinke | Single LF | first  
4 | 0-4 | 0 | Gonzalez | Greinke | Groundout | force out Salvamini  
4 | 0-4 | 1 | Cristiello | Greinke | Single CF | first, second  
4 | 0-4 | 1 | Hanan | Greinke | Single RF | Gozanlez scores  
4 | 1-4 | 1 | Lawson | Greinke | Groundout | Cristiello scores  
4 | 2-4 | 2 | Voorhies | Greinke | Double | Hanan scores  
4 | 3-4 | 2 | PH-Elin | Greinke | Single | Voorhies scores  
4 | 4-4 | 2 | Ellis | Chafin | Flyball |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
4 | 4-4 | 0 | Peralta | Margolis | Triple CF | third  
4 | 4-4 | 1 | Marte | Margolis | Flyball |    
4 | 4-4 | 1 | Goldschmidt | Margolis | Groundout |    
4 | 4-4 | 2 | Martinez | Margolis | IBB | first, third  
4 | 4-4 | 2 | Lamb | Margolis | Pop Fly |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
5 | 4-4 | 0 | Sanders | Ray | Strikeout Swinging |    
5 | 4-4 | 1 | Salvamini | Ray | Strikeout Swinging |    
5 | 4-4 | 2 | Gonzalez | Ray | Flyball |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
5 | 4-4 | 0 | Pollock | Margolis | Groundout |    
5 | 4-4 | 1 | Descalso | Margolis | Strikeout Swinging |    
5 | 4-4 | 1 | Mathis | Margolis | Walk |    
5 | 4-4 | 2 | Ray | Margolis | Strikeout Swinging |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
6 | 4-4 | 0 | Cristiello | Ray | Groundout |    
6 | 4-4 | 1 | Hanan | Ray | Single | first  
6 | 4-4 | 2 | Lawson | Ray | GDP |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
6 | 4-4 | 0 | Peralta | Margolis | Groundout |    
6 | 4-4 | 0 | Marte | Margolis | Single LF | first  
6 | 4-4 | 1 | Goldschmidt | Fogelman | Strikeout Swinging |    
6 | 4-4 | 2 | Martinez | Fogelman | Groundout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
7 | 4-4 | 0 | Voorhies | Ray | Double | second  
7 | 4-4 | 0 | PH-Bessner | Ray | Wild Pitch | Voorhies to third  
7 | 4-4 | 0 | PH-Bessner | Ray | Strikeout Swinging |    
7 | 4-4 | 1 | Ellis | De La Rosa | Bunt 2B-1B | Voorhies scores  
7 | 5-4 | 2 | Sanders | Bradley | Groundout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
7 | 4-5 | 0 | Lamb | Fogelman | Single | first  
7 | 4-5 | 0 | Pollock | Fogelman | Foul Popfly |    
7 | 4-5 | 1 | Descalso | Fogelman | Walk | Lamb to second  
7 | 4-5 | 1 | Mathis | Fogelman | Strikeout Swinging |    
7 | 4-5 | 2 | Bradley | Fogelman | Triple CF | Lamb, Descalso score  
7 | 6-5 | 2 | Peralta | Moore | Groundout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
8 | 5-6 | 0 | Salvamini | Bradley | Groundout |    
8 | 5-6 | 1 | Gonzalez | Bradley | Home Run |    
8 | 6-6 | 1 | Cristiello | Bradley | Home Run |    
8 | 7-6 | 1 | Hanan | Bradley | Groundout |    
8 | 7-6 | 2 | Lawson | Bradley | Double | second  
8 | 7-6 | 2 | Voorhies | Bradley | Lineout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
8 | 6-7 | 0 | Marte | Moore | Strikeout Looking |    
8 | 6-7 | 1 | Goldschmidt | Moore | Single LF | first  
8 | 6-7 | 1 | Martinez | Moore | Groundout | force out 2B - Goldschmidt out  
8 | 6-7 | 2 | Lamb | Moore | Single | first, second  
8 | 7-7 | 2 | Pollock | Moore | Single | first, third, Martinez scores  
8 | 7-7 | 2 | Descalso | Moore | Walk |    
8 | 8-7 | 2 | Mathis | Moore | Bunt | Lamb scores  
8 | 8-7 | 2 | Drury | Moore | Groundout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
9 | 7-8 | 0 | Bessner | Hernandez | Home Run |    
9 | 8-8 | 0 | Ellis | Hernandez | Single | first  
9 | 8-8 | 1 | Sanders | Hernandez | GDP |    
9 | 8-8 | 2 | Salvamini | Hernandez | Strikeout Swinging |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
9 | 8-8 | 0 | Peralta | Hunter | Flyout |    
9 | 8-8 | 1 | Marte | Hunter | Strikeout Swinging |    
9 | 8-8 | 2 | Goldschmidt | Hunter | Strikeout Looking |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
10 | 8-8 | 0 | Gonzalez | Hernandez | Groundout |    
10 | 8-8 | 1 | Cristiello | Hernandez | Strikeout Looking |    
10 | 8-8 | 2 | Hanan | Hernandez | Flyout |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
10 | 8-8 | 0 | Martinez | Baker | Strikeout Swinging |    
10 | 8-8 | 1 | Lamb | Baker | Flyout |    
10 | 8-8 | 2 | Pollock | Baker | Single |    
10 | 8-8 | 2 | Descalso | Baker | Strikeout Looking |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
11 | 8-8 | 0 | Lawson | Rodney | Home Run |    
11 | 9-8 | 1 | Voorhies | Rodney | Strikeout Swinging |    
11 | 9-8 | 2 | Baker | Rodney | Strikeout Looking |    
  |   |   |   |   |   |    
11 | 8-9 | 0 | Mathis | Baker | Walk |    
11 | 8-9 | 0 | PH-Rosales | Baker | Strikeout Swinging |    
11 | 8-9 | 1 | Peralta | Baker | Single | first  
11 | 8-9 | 2 | Marte | Baker | GDP |  


End file.
